Unbroken Road
by Lady Of Embers
Summary: The Dragonborn has come to Skyrim, fresh from the Shivering Isles, to join the Dark Brotherhood. To say she is sidetracked is something of an understatement.
1. Helgen

**1**

There was a cold breeze blowing through the cracks of the cart, and her head was aching.

"Hey, you…"

She let out a moan, blinking back the haze from her eyes. She reached up to brush away a stray hair and found both her hands in front of her face.

_Oh by the-_

"Where is your commanding officer?" she heard someone snap – a woman? A woman with a thick Falinesti accent…of course, that would be her aunt…

"Shut up back there!"

"Oh, Tullius will have your rank once he sees me," the voice snarled. "Do you know who I am? No? Blasted auxiliaries…"

"Shut up, elf," a man told her aunt. "Nobody wants to hear your voice, so pipe down. We're going to die with dignity, remember? Even the horse thief agreed to."

"The horse thief can go mate with his precious equine," the female spat.

"I thought that was what Bosmer did," he sneered. "Imperial milk-drinker."

"Let me introduce you to Jagga," the woman began angrily, "and soon milk will be all you're drinking, Nord. Your mead and ale is piss water compared to Jagga and Rotmeth."

There was a large amount of loud grunting from further away.

"Oh, nobody cares what you think, Ulfric Turncloak! You can't even keep your damned loyalty without stressing about your imagined oppression!"

"That's Ulfric Stormcloak-"

"An idiotic, reckless soldier keener to Shout his enemies to pieces than he was to listen to orders! I WAS HIS LEGATE FOR FIVE EIGHT-DAMNED YEARS! I think I know what he's like, thank you, sun hair!"

"All prisoners, shut your mouths!"

She raised her hands to her mouth, slowly chewing away at the rope wound around them. She looked up, sensing eyes on her.

A blonde Nord man was watching her, blue eyes wide and mouth agape, as more of the woven fibre was chewed away. Beside her was a small Bosmeri womer, with short blonde hair, amber eyes and fallow coloured skin littered with scars of all kinds, up her neck, over her eye, across her cheek, on her jaw. Sitting next to the womer, in stark contrast, was a hulking man with a scarred face, long, dirty blond hair, bound and gagged, in ripped finery.

"Ulfric Stormcloak," the womer began, "your Nords like to think you're steeped in tradition, eh? You know, that's the funniest joke I've heard this era! You can't even keep your own gods!"

"Will you shut up?!" the blond man demanded. "We're all trying to have some peaceful last moments!"

"Oh no," she chuckled darkly, "this isn't going to waste. This time, he's defenceless. You know," here, her voice dropped, and she grinned. "Like Torygg."

The hulking Nord growled at her.

"The Bear of Markarth," she said jovially. "Kyne almighty do you sound like one at this moment! Do you remember Kyne? These days, you call her 'Kynareth'. Daedra below, your sires must be rolling in their graves at such an easy conversion."

Ulfric slammed his shoulder into her, but the elf pushed back with a somewhat feral grin.

"Twenty years of ruddy Grummites! Any idea how _easy_ Grummites are when you've half a pound of Balliwog meat and a net?! _Now_ I have a test of strength! Do you think Shor will let you into Sovngarde if you were sat on by a puny elf?"

She began to rub feeling into her wrists, the rope now merrily on its way into her gut. Mad God's beard, would that be interesting getting_ that_ out later…

"Ah, hello sweetheart," the elf suddenly said with a warm smile. "I did ask the soldiers to be gentle with you, but they weren't listening. Goodness, none of the niceties that were observed in my day…"

She suddenly became aware of the fact that they were entering a pair of gates, and the blonde Nord began to mutter something about Thalmor. The elf shushed him, and stood.

"TULLIUS!" she shrieked loudly.

That got somebody's attention. An Imperial in gold and leather armour with a red cape wheeled around on his horse and galloped over to the cart.

"Legate Ariandil!" he gasped. "Stop the cart, auxiliary!"

"But sir," the man began to protest.

"_Stop the cart or I swear by Akatosh I'm relegating you to Eastmarch_," the Imperial snarled. The auxiliary pulled hurriedly on the reigns, halting the horses.

The gold-plated Imperial drew his dagger, and hopped up onto the cart, slitting the bonds of the elf.

"My deepest apologies, Legate," he began. "Here, on my horse." He held out his hand, and swung her onto his back, climbing onto his horse once more.

"Her too, General," the elf informed him, pointing to her niece.

Tullius looked up at where she was pointing, and found himself looking at a pretty young girl, probably no more than twenty, gazing back at him with large, terrified green eyes., framed by olive skin and long black hair.

"She yours?" he asked.

"Nobody's had that honour yet," was the only reply he got, punctuated by a chuckle.

"I understand," he began, and then turned his head slightly. "Hadvar! Escort the young lady from the cart."

"Aye, sir!" came the willing reply, and the General dug his heels into his horse, spurring it towards a nearby tower. He dismounted, and helped the elf off.

"Legate, there's some spare gear in the keep, and a sword around here somewhere. I am deeply sorry about this situation," the man began.

"General Artorius Tullius," she began, "don't apologise for the Legion doing its job."

* * *

The cart began to move again, heading towards the town square, and she heard the boos of the townsfolk, screaming at the…Stormcloaks…and calling for their deaths. It was not a nice sensation, being associated with them. She knew little about them; news didn't really flow into their home. It was something to do with Talos, she knew that much. But that was silly. Everyone on the Isles – well, the mer anyway – told her that the Nords worshipped animals, like dragons. Why were they rebelling about Talos?

She was dragged from her thoughts, along with her body from the cart.

"These are a bunch of Stormcloaks," an Imperial woman snorted. "Get 'em to the block."

"But ma'am-"

A young Nord had clambered from his horse, approaching her.

"I said, get 'em to the block!" the woman snapped. "Follow your orders, Tribune!"

"But Tullius said-"

"Tullius said have 'em all executed!" she hissed at him. "Can you not understand me?! Get rid of the Imperial turncoat first."

"But captain-"

"I gave you an-!"

The Imperial didn't get to finish her sentence. There was an angry blonde womer fisting black hair into her hands and dragging her backwards.

"Your soldiers are trying to communicate," she hissed. "I suggest you listen."

"Get off of me!" the captain snarled. She managed to turn her head, and spotted the low-ranking armour the mer wore. "You're just an Auxiliary; get into place!"

"My name is Legate Bianca Ariandil, and you had better learn to damn well listen to your soldiers!" the mer spat. "That Imperial is not a turncloak, nor a full-blooded Imperial. The girl is half mer! Hadvar was sent to get her out of the execution line. Or did you not want to listen to your men past your bloated ego?"

She forced the Imperial to her knees.

"Name and rank, soldier!" she demanded.

"You can't be-"

"_Name and rank, soldier_!"

"Captain Cassenia Caevessius, ma'am," the Imperial managed.

"Captain? No, no, I don't think so. Cassenia Caevessius, did you know that the Empire is not allowed to execute a prisoner that is not listed?"

"Yes, of course! But-"

"Did you check the list? Are you aware of the damage potentially done to both our reputation and morale by an illegal execution?"

"No!"

"One more question. Communication with junior officers is highly important to maintain a respectful, healthy compound. _Do you ever listen to your inferiors' advice_?"

"No," Cassenia gasped.

"Well then," the mer told her with a sigh, "I know exactly what to do. You, Cassenia Caevessius, are hereby stripped of the rank of captain. You are relegated back to Auxiliary, under my command, and you will be on barracks-cleaning duty for the next five months, _because nobody tries to illegally execute my niece_!"

* * *

"Ah, my pack," the mer began with a smile. "Let's see now…oh, hello, you absolute beauty," she chuckled, reaching inside the back and pulling out a length of red silk. "I have missed you, my darling. Walking about looking like a whetstone was hardly something I aspire to do all day."

She plaited her short hair, trying the end with the ribbon. She rubbed her skin, gazing into a bowl of water, as the enchantment began to take effect, her scars slowly fading, light wrinkles subsiding, replaced by healthy, century-old skin. Her eyes took on a youthful sparkle, her hair almost glowing with health.

"Oh, I feel one hundred all over again!" she laughed. "But I'll need a bath soon, and some more of that ointment Nal showed me how to make…oh, Azura, can I get that up here?" She hummed.

"Oh, it's not as though expense is a trouble…"

She was sifting through her weapons collection, trying to find her Daedric sword, when the roaring started.

* * *

**Lady**


	2. A Petrified Half Breed

**2**

"Is she okay?" Hadvar asked Tullius quietly. "I mean, she looks terrified, like we're about to bite her."

Tullius was busy, bending over the map table, watching as they executed Stormcloaks.

"Hmm? Oh yes, maybe she's just shy," the man muttered, a small smirk gracing his face as Ulfric was lined up to the block. He was looking back to his map when the sentries began screaming about a dragon.

* * *

She watched Hadvar as he watched her, still wearing her sack clothes, although a dress had been placed nearby. She saw his twitching jugular, the way he fidgeted as he looked at her, the worry in his eyes as a frown creased his face.

_This is a person. A non-Islander. That means they're not like Cutter. They're not like Glarthir. They aren't normal like we are. They're so different. They don't have that cheery smile like the people do in Bliss, or the depression and anger that they have in Crucible. How does one do that expression? Neutral, but worried, and is that angry too? Haskill's kneecap, what do I do? These are strange people! And he won't stop staring at me!_

Every word rushed through her head, her breathing erratic. Her hands gripped the sacking tightly, toes curling nervously, sweat beginning to break out on her forehead. He was staring. He was making her feel uncomfortable and she didn't know why. Her face flushed and she averted her eyes, hoping he would stop. Why didn't he stop? What was so interesting about her?

It was when she began to shake, that the air around them vibrated, and the word 'dragon' began to be screamed.

* * *

Bianca had dashed outside, sword in hand, to see the town alight.

_Helgen, this is Helgen. Remember? Tullius told you that while you were getting armour. _

Bianca could command animals. Dogs to do tricks. Cats to play with their tales. Noble lions and hulking bears, proud wolves and swift horses. But as she watched a mass of black scales and muscle fly overhead, setting blazing fires with its breath, she knew there was no way her inborn abilities would stretch this far. Instead, she fled into the inn, where Tullius and Hadvar were sitting with her niece, trying to assemble the townsfolk.

"Open the gates!" Bianca shouted. "Load up the carts, if any have survived! Get them to the nearest town. We'll cover them! And for Dibella's sake, Tullius, make sure my niece makes it!"

The two legionnaires began to follow her orders, taking two spell-casters as Bianca began to sprint through the town. There could not be too many casualties. They needed these soldiers.

"Abandon your posts!" she barked. "Focus on the citizens, get them to safety! Abandon your-"

She was cut off by the dragon landing in front of her.

She couldn't parse the situation, not right now. At this moment she was surrounded by people – normal people, sane people, people not like her – and she had to be calm, she had to. She held her arms, jostled by worried townsfolk, sitting herself firmly down on the cart seats.

"Ms – er – Legate's niece!" the man Hadvar shouted. "Over here!"

She turned to see him wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her onto his horse.

"Strict instructions to make sure you survive," he informed her. "Hold onto my waist."

She wrapped her arms around him, unsure of what to do, as he patrolled the town, escorting out citizens and soldiers alike.

"Go, go, go! Down the road, down to Riverwood! Hurry!" he shouted, and then turned and gasped.

Bianca staggered out of the ruins, armour smoking, carrying a frightened boy in her arms, a horse trotting behind her. As they watched, she mounted the horse, tied the boy to the reins, and began to ride off. Hadvar followed at a hurried pace.

They reached Riverwood shortly, and began to set up camp outside. The Legion mages and alchemists were rushed off their feet tending to wounds and burns, and Bianca gritted her teeth and tried not to listen to the cries of the wounded, as she removed her armour and ribbon and submerged her now-burnt body into the river. She cast water-breathing, lying on the banks, naked and stretched out to the sun, until her skin felt soothed and healed. She was sitting on her armour, on a stump, rubbing potion onto the burn marks, when her niece approached, green eyes still wide and fearful.

"Hello, sweetheart," Bianca said gently, as the girl sat near her. A Bosmer has no problem with public nudity, and so the mer happily sat in the sun naked as the day she was born. "This hasn't been the greatest introduction to Skyrim we could have had, eh?"

The girl shook her head.

"We'll go to Solitude, and stay with the Legion while I get us a house. Then we'll have a centre of operations," Bianca promised.

"His parents are dead," was all the half-elf told her. "And his name is Haming."

"The boy I saved? His parents died in a fire…why does that sound familiar? Oh yes, I remember," she said, with a sad smile. "Remember the story of why you have no grandparents?"

The half-mer nodded.

"Fire," she stated. Then she looked up. "That soldier's called Hadvar, and he won't stop staring at me."

Bianca leaned over and brushed large patches of ash from her niece's face.

"Elithiel Ariandil," she began, "has anyone ever told you what happens when a man sees a beautiful woman?"


	3. United By a Common Goal

**3**

The Sleeping Giant was overcrowded that night with Helgen refugees. Riverwood had opened up its doors to the citizens, and different members of Riverwood had taken in different refugees. The blacksmith had taken in a few lads who knew how to smith, and his wife had gone to the Sleeping Giant to look after any parentless children. Haming was not among them. The Riverwood Trader had taken in a few young women, and the bard had allowed men to sleep in his house. There were a few Pro-Stormcloaks in the mill-owner's house. The Legionnaires were trying to ignore them. Bianca was enjoying the cool night air and trying to think where to go from there.

Or, she would have been, had she not spotted the blonde Stormcloak from Helgen sneaking around Riverwood. He looked exhausted and filthy, his blue armour caked in ash and sweat to the point you could barely recognise it as Stormcloak armour. Perhaps, she mused, that was the reason why he hadn't cleaned it yet. She slipped into the shadows, crouching as she slunk in behind him. He was headed towards the miller's house, and she caught him before he reached their door, her hand sliding into her boot.

"Well, hello."

The Nord growled in surprise as the blade of a shiv was pressed against his throat. A hand fisted into his blond hair, and he was pushed to his knees by an attacker who was stronger than they looked.

"Sun-hair. What a pleasant surprise," she purred. "Wondered if you'd escaped. You sons of Skyrim are slicker than ice when you need to get out of a situation. Hah, look, I made a pun." Her rambling put him off for a second and he dimly wondered how many knocks this womer had taken to the head during the war, before he remembered the fact that she had a handful of his hair.

"Bosmeri bitch," he snarled. "Let me go!"

"Why don't we exchange names? I'm Legate Bianca Ariandil."

"I don't have to say anything to you. You're a pawn of the Empire."

"Mmmm, and I've got a dagger poised at your throat." She chuckled, somewhat darkly given the situation, and the blade dug in a little deeper. "What's. Your. _Name_?"

"Ralof of Riverwood," he spat out. Then he snatched her behind her knees and tossed her over his shoulder. The Bosmer went flying, crumpling to the floor, but quickly regaining her footing, even as Ralof turned and ran. He sprinted well, but his stamina was no match for that of a professional soldier, and by the time they reached outside Embershard Mine, he was exhausted, and in perfect shape for the Bosmer to tackle him. She went straight for the backs of his legs, shoulder pushing at the right angle to take him down in one smooth shove.

He landed heavily on his back, and she straddled him, knife to his throat. He snarled, knocking away her hands, but she grabbed his throat as he tried to push her off. The apex of her thighs brushed his length unwittingly as she was shoved onto his lap and by the _gods_ adrenaline had always made him hard. The situation changed almost immediately. She began to squirm down onto him as his hips began to buck upwards. He scooped the Bosmer up over his shoulder, approaching Embershard mine. He wrested her dagger from her, stabbing the bandit guarding the entrance, and kicked the body away, tossing her down on the floor. He fell over her, and she wrapped her legs around his hips and rolled him onto his back. The Nord growled at her, pulling his armour up slightly, and reaching into his breeches to free his length. He vaguely remembered reaching up, and cloth tearing under fingers that found something wet and slick and soft. The Bosmer leant back, her hands bracing themselves on his shins, and _oh gods, he was pleasuring an Imperial soldier_. His fingers were squished by the powerful inner muscles and he allowed the enemy soldier a few moments' reprieve before he pulled her down onto his erect length. The Bosmer hissed, half in plain, half in pleasure, sinking down into his lap before pulling her hips upwards again, slamming back down onto him. Ralof moaned, thrusting his own hips upward into her, for a few minutes able to forget that this womer wanted to kill him and losing himself to the sensation of being buried inside a consenting adult that felt like she hadn't had a proper fuck in several years. Said adult raked her fingers down across his shoulders, her hips beginning a steady, driving pace, causing Ralof's lashes to flutter in pleasure and his eyes roll, because _Talos preserve him_, the womer was as good as any professional whore.

Ralof grabbed her waist and rolled over, pushing her onto her back. He thrust into her harshly, causing her back to bow, and the elf threw her head back and moaned loudly as the Nord took her, his timing rough as his strokes. _It had been so long_. He had a feeling the womer was enjoying the roughness as much as he was. He was deliberately avoiding any gentle thrusts; it would add vague emotion to the act and neither of them wanted that. Besides, he just wanted to fuck her, not make love to her.

It did not take her too long to come, muffling her cries as his thumb found her clit and rubbed harshly, managing his name as he grunted, driving into her a few more times before spilling, pulling out, though a little too late. He rolled on his back, his breathing laboured, as the mer straddled him again, her dagger once more at his throat. Her breath came out heavily, and after a few seconds of thought she seemed to have lost the will to follow through, sheathing her blade.

"If I see you around here again, if I hear any reports of you being around here again, I'll kill you myself, is that clear?"

Ralof's answer was to bite her lip and shove her away, getting up. He stood, gazing at her for a few seconds, before turning and running back to Riverwood. She followed at a pace, watching until he disappeared over a bridge.

She knew, almost with a sinking feeling, that she would see him again.


End file.
